Sandbox: Act of Will part 1
from Act of Will by Will Dockery Poem for Kathy Who is wonderful to me who's a true love – Princess of the Night Demonstar Sorceress, lots of love to you – you're great. I can't think of anything else I should write. If I try my emotions explode. - Will Dockery, July 27 1977 I. Self Portrait I'm an artist, a sculptor, my face is the granite. Watch me see me build myself anew. I see my face crumble and dissolve like idiot solvent. These wrinkled eyes seek out the idiot. I create ... myself From whatever pieces are handy, and I walk – a Golem with words to spare. Like a pigmy – like smoke in the air. Like a reality that does not care. Squint my eyes, stoned in the glare. Covered in patches I'll have a Brandy Alexander. Face like cut granite stand me in some court square. 2002 Bluebird So many tears on a moonlit mile through Aokigahara forest old man tips his snow cap. Bluebird on white snow shivers her timbers. Snow balling a white kiss a love seconded. She makes me think of a haiku, though unfinished 2017 Apple Montage Sneaking around with Cousin Jenny, smoking menthol beyond the sheds. Late summer vacation 1973 in the backwoods of Tennessee. To the right behind the barn were apple trees. There were several of those trees and other trees behind them beyond a field and behind them, other trees. Later, I stood near as a crowd watched Pops and my Uncle cooking apple butter; stirring the brown gunk, boiling in a huge black kettle. I saw my father secretly pass a wine bottle to my Uncle Clarence. I went from breathing cold mist out back behind the barn, to breathing the hot misty steam. The air smelled of apple fumes and strong booze. 2017 Smoke Beast Growing Stupidly, I had just started back up with the smokes around 1996. I had stopped in 1985 before my daughter was born, didn't pick one up for a decade. And then one sad strange night in 1995 with a bottle of Captain Morgan... And a dear friend who was slowly going away forever, I lit a smoke. Took me 13 more years to slay that beast again. November 2017 At the Taco Stand I often think of my past and the best tacos I'd share with Kathy on Victory Drive; when the taco stand closed long ago, the Thursday special was a buck for five. Back in 1980 at Buena Vista taco stand, over from the Zodiac and Mickey's, that music row at the little table there I'd hold her hand eating a taco after the rock show. The red and green sauce there were made from scratch, hard to decide on which, both mighty fine though we did decide the green sauce had no match at the taco stand, her eyes staring into mine ... Nostalgia, alone with chilling wind and visions of my Lady Katherine. 2017 [Edited for meter: I often think of my past and the best tacos I'd share with Kathy down on Victory Drive where the taco stand stood 40 years ago. The Thursday special was a buck for five back then at Buena Vista taco stand, near Zodiac and Mickey's, on music row. At the little table there I'd hold her hand eating a taco after the rock show. The red and green sauce there were made from scratch, hard to decide on which, both mighty fine though we declared the green sauce had no match as we partook, her eyes staring into mine ... Nostalgia, alone with chilling wind and visions of my Lady Katherine. Note to Will: L10 - Rather than repeating "at the taco stand," I wanted a seque from your comments about the sauces to the image of her eyes staring at you. "As we ate our meal" worked for me, and "partook" worked perfectly metrically. The problem is, I don't know if it's a word that you'd use - if it fits your own voice. (The only other suggestion I have is "chowed down," and I think that's horrible!) Ganesha Girl on Rankin Jesus' consort statuesque beauty blindfolded labia lipped skyscraper built on the spot built where Lady Katherine lived the whorehouse grocery at the edge of Linwood Cemetery. Old money still spins well spends well . . . Northside skyline of many colored glass Fort Darkness walled in the giant Temple of Mars visible from behind the walls, silvery, ancient. The glittering war machines and masks not so visible . . . Ganesha Girl and silver skinned alien sit with the projector. Other worlds surround them. Scattered money all over them. A pyramid built from colored bells, clocks and machinery I can see from on high . . . A giant housefly feeds on Green Island. They stand and face West as Jesus surveys Lee County from on high. Jesus' little sidekick looks so lonely dressed in Papal robes, booklet of poems and a big cross in his arms. They're aware of the train wreck near Goat Rock instruments spilled from the boxcar. Liquid bubble cube ancient animal bones other things, colored ceramic at Jesus' feet . . . Jesus prepares to start up and operate the Holy Machine. They've turned their backs on Shadowville with its bells and jars, cars, cupid and crowns, chains, old clocks, an hour glass . . . Ganesha Girl, happy in her bathing suit floating on a cloud. 2003 Decima For Decima Decima, aim your rod to screen Film into the eyeless abyss To a level in lighted mist Tenth Norn of afterimage dream Nests of ghosts in a webbed beam Born illuminated and queer Shake fate infinity mirror Glowing light child of Chaos string Night-swim bouncing and measuring A weird sister without anger. 2008 When The Mill Shut Down When the mill shut down we hit the pavement with a thud then we all got up and kept walking. Some to the work house some to the poor house some to the whorehouse and the grave. Ragpicker Joe On a stroll, along a Southside dole. To collect my thoughts, and learn what I used to know. Ambling down the street, friend to all he meets: here comes Ragpicker Joe: Hey hey man, you got a pistol in your hand. Don't go doing the things we often talked about... Ragpicker Joe, it's our lives now don't you know? It just ain't worth doing all that time... Sally Sue came back, took his cadillac, her brothers jacked him up and left him on the curb. This is life in the city we got our ways and our means. Ragpicker Joe... He said man, I got the upper hand, gonna win this war come high water or ice. Ragpicker Joe, why did you go do all those things you did? Ragpicker Joe do do do do... those things we talked about in jest. That's the last I seen of old Joe, he got blown away by the tornado, an act of God but absolutely just. Ragpicker Joe why did you go do things we often talked about in jest? Ragpicker Joe blown away by a tornado sad case but what did we expect? Shadowville Speedway Blues In a taxi watching a sporting house Beside a Linwood vacant lot Silverdollar moon portspotting Constellation like a sailor's knot. The sky was black, ink and glitter in the night Train whine saxophone out beyond the light. I'm in love with a ghost blue turns to grey Put a pyramid on my head to take my pain away. Shadowville, Shadowville Speedway Riding slow down a one way street. Brown Reculse magic drifting around the shed Someone has it in for me I must not lose my head Moving with the speedo life several with me left behind Burned too many bridges defragmented my time. Somewhere in time I've seen all this before In a magazine or a dream of a distant war. Shadowville, Shadowville Speedway Riding slow down a one way street. Manifested destiny a manifesto and a part All the actors still agree that ever had a heart. Hazel knew the karma, she kept it in a bottle Black tooth mojo marked index cards Bundles over the side of Dillingham Bridge Splashing as ripples reflect from the stars. Shadowville, Shadowville Speedway Riding slow down a one way street Shadowville, Shadowville Speedway Don't look back, don't admit defeat. 2009 Honeytrip Beads of sweat as I drive on 280, thinking about a lonesome wildflower. Cross country for this honeytrip, going down to incant a shadowmusic, joined on stage by her fiddle, swear to god I really miss her. She knows that I've missed her, she drives alone on highway 280. Her grandfather also played fiddle, and grew government wildflowers. Let him play his shadowmusic, as we recall the honeytrip. Backpacked, hitchhiked to honeytrip, waterfall spray did mist her, we formed a band to play shadowmusic. Down in Salem, on Highway 280, saw the sign of Project Wildflower, a contra agent but plays good fiddle. In the night sirens played fiddle, rustling wail of honey trip. Behind her ear was a wildflower, I knew some day I would miss her. Looking for tea olive on 280, to play a few hours of shadowmusic. Down a moonlit mile wild shadowmusic, Bibb Mill burned as he played fiddle. Westbound down Highway 280, like a hound for the honeytrip, after all her lies I still missed her, blowing kisses from a field of wildflowers. Sang a melody like "Wildwood Flower", she made it her own kind of shadowmusic. When he stepped on stage we called him mister, ghost of Sgt. Fury playing show fiddle. The only crown prince of honey trip, people parked and walked from 280. Smell the wildflowers, surrounded by shadowmusic, I miss her and her grandfather's fiddle. Lonesome old honeytrip, in a hollow off 280. 2008 Frayed Page Soaked in Rain In the beginning with this road fever silver rose for a brief gaudy hour on the peaks with this frayed page we parked at the graveyard. Mugged out summer night Cody at the wheel Sweating on the road in this cool scene on the moonlit avenue. Raw, exotic artistry illiterate poetics at dawn remember her head on my lap. Platonic blow job just making things go right. This is my extra special double album of myth. These are the poems archetypes of my life. We spent the summer nights naked, crazy ceiling fans. In the rain at dark freshly mowed grass on our feet. The night is somehow chilly for June out of town out in the pines. 1996 from Saint Augustine Blues Chorus Five Three songs to the wind, three sheets of a tune. Three of us singer, painter and me. People start looking very strange they are unearthly but very real. Inside, I darken again to black. this place I sit smells so old. Cold blonde in sepia tone chills in the heat. She leads the parade of naiads in lush greens pinks blue on blue on blue. Dollars in the bucket collect for the street singer. Old man with beads paints a chinaberry points out the parrots. Blonde after blonde after blonde after the parade. People start looking really strange again. I must seem likewise to them as this dusty smell surrounds me. I'd draw these people with words but I'm not fast enough. They pass and fade part of the parade. On this really old wall, good view from up here. Forever is a long time but not as long as yesterday. Stoneman the Cat Ten mama birds --- pelicans, flying in formation, following daddy. Sitting on the rocks is Stoneman the Cat. Watching for fish, sniffing for Ravens, brunettes are his favorite dish. Ah, you green eyed little fiend, my friend, have some burger, strut your tail. Primordial predatory animal. Grey goatee --- jump up on the table, you purr like a Harley. You nuzzle on my pen --- I'm trying to write, cat! While you wanna sleep on my arm. Dream well, paisan. 1999 Behind The Forest Under the tent, can't describe this light. Under the black base are blue and red shadows. The ink glistens, silvery like tiny mercury. Working to purity, music and words and sweat. No tears. Forget tomorrow. Let go the problems in time. Sun bleached cure, the addiction does not hold me, as the drugs, human drugs, create the sound. Saint Augustine night, moon mother smiles. Catch the flow, it may never be back again, though possible. Poetic form disintegrates, quit cold turkey, so I can find what I have lost. Termite stars shine on the oldest city. The fascist doctors are no match for the old man with beads. Double didgeridoo warble, aboriginal soul hum. Sweat, blue meets red. Let it drop for peace of mind. Fingerpicking violinist weaves notes through the breeze... words about money float by. Hope springs eternal as long as the well's not dry. 1999 Signposts on the Outskirts Down the road we are moving and the darkness is like a solid block. The silence around me is being shattered by the roar of my engine's knock. And nobody around me seems to have the strength to talk. The other two seem to have nodded off from the backseat I hear someone cough I light your smoke and watch it spark And these signposts on the outskirts flash by in strobes in the dark. In the middle of this circle the words twisted in a ball of yellow. Like a layer over that there's you talking softly, kind of mellow. The others don't know what you mean they think you've become like a machine. They think that your life is too clean for them to speak to. I'm wondering if their numbers are that few those metallic children of the dawn who chase in and out after you. Peer pressure for a race down a dead-end into the faded jaws of youth. I'm wondering through your soft words you would reveal what these signposts on the outskirts are trying to conceal? True, I stumbled and fell I lost my way the other night. I always felt even a choice for folly that it was my right. but when I did, if I messed up your flight I hope you know that I'm sorry. If what you said to me was for real then why do you still refuse to feel? Why are you still making me kneel like a dog on the floor? I'm trying to find the power to open up your locked door. Your words splatter like blotches of rain jumbled concepts like leaves that jam a drain take another dose it will free up your brain but if you don't mind I'll side-step the pain if all you can see are flames. Not much else that I can say as I watch you in the moonlight, your sway just beyond those signposts on the outskirts as I'm begging you to stay. They think you act so odd that you must be motorized. You seem to look on that with some surprise. Worthless meanings, evening, and the skies are flaming with stars. If you can believe what we've both seen here our thoughts are together it seems clear nobody else even wants to get near we're on the edge, just a bit too far. We converse as we ride backbeat percussion from the engine of the car. Light prickles through enlightening stars the white picket fences in the dark passing the frosted fields from afar. And on those signposts on the outskirts your secret is revealed. 1976 Sky Song Sky songs written with cloud and light, and numbers, look that up to a point, I see it and the sound echoes off the brick. Queen of darkness, she's out of sight, our lady of the earth. Tall and hot, travel lightly. Mispoken, I did not know the details then, it's real clear to me now. Into the breath ringing down from the sky. Poems the sky writes on slick paper, wet ink glistens on the leaves and grass. She has cartoon red hair, he is the man with the finger flow, then they become as one on the floor. It is clear to me now, what am I to say on this strange warm night? I am as a statue. The moon sings, my heart rings with a strange new sadness. 2002 Looking Over the Bridge (Built in 1936) Free floating ashes down slowly to the creek to the gunky dirty sewer creek. On a cigarette pack I write these words with an ancient pencil maybe sent down from God because my pen is lost. The sky's a murky pea soup but it will not rain there is no rain in this town those were different times. The city is overcast by bright grey translucent shadows as I ride Brother Dave's bike stop on this bridge for a smoke. I don't necessarily want to go I have to go. Cigarette butt falls down quickly with a blur a swirling flourish then slowly moves downstream. What year was this bridge built? Seems so ancient -- I must remember to check the date on it when I leave it. 1999